Under the Floorboards
by yeaka
Summary: Draco's made Voldemort's slave for his father's failures. Harry's caught and joins him. Tom has fun with this. HP/DM, LV(TR)/HP/DM. Finished on LJ.


Disclaimer: The following is a work of fanfiction. I do not own Harry Potter or any of its contents, and I am not making any money off this.

A/N: It's been a while since I've written any HP fanfiction. Hello again. :O Anyway, this is going to be very 18+, so the rest of the story will be posted on my livejournal. (yeaka dot livejournal dot com) This is the only chapter I'm going to post here, and please only read the rest if you're above 18 or the legal adult age in your area.

Draco doesn't need to look at his parents to know it's bad news. It's always bad news. But he looks anyway, before immediately regretting it.

Neither of his parents are looking at him. They're watching the dark, hardwood surface of the table, his mother close to tears and his father convulsively wincing. The whole side of his face is swallowed in a dark bruise; he's failed again. Draco doesn't know over what, but doesn't need to. It's not important. He stopped caring about the war a long time ago; he just wants to make it through the summer and get back to Hogwarts, however terrible that place may be, so he doesn't have to see his parents like this every morning.

And so he doesn't have to see the Dark Lord, who is currently lounging at the head of his dining room table: his father's old place. The usual Death Eaters, those a part of the Dark Lord's inner circle, line the table on either side. Severus isn't there. Every time he isn't something pangs in Draco's chest. He misses his godfather more than words can express. Severus has always been there for him, and Draco's never needed a hug more than he does now.

He's standing at the head of the table. They're all looking at him. He wants to take a seat, of course, but was sharply told to stand. Most of the others aren't look at him, but those that are seem curious, except for his aunt, who looks as deranged as ever. She's almost smiling. This isn't the time or place, obviously, but Draco has the intense urge to punch her. (That's a fight he would definitely lose, though.)

"Draco," the Dark Lord says, in his usual rasp of a voice. It sends shivers up Draco's spine every time, and this time isn't any different. "Your father has failed me. ...Again." Draco nods and looks down, eyes squeezing shut against his will. He knows he isn't supposed to show weakness, but can't help it. His throat is dry.

"Please-" his mother suddenly cries, and Draco looks up, but she's silenced quickly with a look from the Dark Lord. Then he looks back at Draco, with a smile on his thin lips. Stretched, the skin on his face looks as pallid and sickly as ever. It makes Draco cringe to look at. He's shaking. Oh Merlin. This is going to be bad. He knows it is.

"You're not going to be much use to me either, I gather."

Draco swallows. Should he beg? He never knows when to beg. He doesn't want to be punished for talking if he isn't allowed to. So he simply lowers his head – at least that way he won't have to look at the Dark Lord – but fuck, that awful giant snake is under his table. He sucks in a breath and looks back, eyes wide. The Dark Lord is smiling, ever so slightly, which is never, ever, a good thing.

"What should I do with you then? Feed you to Nagini?" Several things happen simultaneously: his mother gasps, his aunt chuckles, Draco pales, and the giant snake slithers out and begins to circle around his feet. There's a pause broken only by his mother's faint sobs. "But then, that would be a waste of a perfectly good pure-blood body."

Draco isn't stupid enough to release the breath he's holding. Would they kill him first, if that happens? He'd rather be Avada Kedavra-d and fed to a snake than given to Bellatrix to deal with or crucio-d to death. But he's still terrified of all given options, and probably only a hair short of fainting.

"You know..." The Dark Lord drawls, still in that disturbing tone of voice that sounds, somehow, as though it's both discussing something as simple as the weather and yet as horrific as torture, "I've been thinking lately... there's only so much you can do with house elves. Although I'm rather disappointed you don't have any of those, Lucius."

Draco looks over – his father winces at his name, but says nothing, still looking firmly down. They've all learned by now that nothing they can say will help, and it's best to just take whatever's given. A younger, more childish Draco would've snapped that it wasn't his father's fault, it was that damn Potter's, that they don't have a house elf anymore. But Draco is older now, and not so much wiser as more broken and choked, so he says nothing while the Dark Lord continues to muse.

"Perhaps I need my own house elf, hm? But a pure-blood slave is sure to be better than some filthy creature, don't you think, Draco?" Draco's head snaps up immediately. Somehow he hadn't seen the conversation going there – him? A house elf? He's no house elf. But obviously he can't say that. Oh, Merlin. He can't say anything. His tongue is thick and his head starts to fog with panic. "It's more of an honour, really. You should thank me." And the Dark Lord's horrible chin tilts up expectantly.

Tongue-tied and horror-stricken, Draco barely manages to mumble, "Th-thank you, my lord."

Still smiling that sinister grin, The Dark Lord hisses, "No, I think you'll call me master, now."

Draco gulps, and stumbles to correct, "Th-thank you, master."

He can't look at his parents. He can't. He doesn't want to see their faces – can't take it. He doesn't know what this means, but knows it won't be good, and he feels numb and clammy. The Dark Lord nods. "That will be all, then. I'd take your wand, but you already failed me and lost it to the Potter boy, didn't you? I don't believe I ever punished you properly for that." Draco says nothing; his eyes are getting wet. He was punished for that. He was cruio-d until he could barely feel his limbs, but not by the Dark Lord himself, and he isn't about to interrupt. "Go to my quarters, strip down, and kneel in front of the door." Strip? He isn't... he can't be... not _that_ kind of slave... if there was any colour left to Draco cheeks it's gone now. He's shaking so badly he's surprised he's still upright. "If you do anything else I'll know, and you'll be punished. Do you understand?"

It's all a blur; he isn't sure if he nods. He hears a voice that sounds shakily like his own trip on the words, "Yes, master."

"Don't speak unless I've give you permission."

Draco opens his mouth and quickly closes it, and nods again.

Then he's dismissed, and walks out into the hallway, where he collapses against the wall and starts to cry. But he wasn't given permission to do that. So he pushes back up and manages, somehow, someway, to make it to his room. Draco isn't a Gryffindor. He never was strong, and he never was brave. He was always weak, and whiny, and a petulant child who didn't know what to do with things not going his way. He's always been a little damaged. Now it's just a lot worse. He does what he's told and tries not to think of his parents, still sitting at the old table.

Please read the beginning notes to find chapter 2.


End file.
